


there amongst the lilies fair

by m_madeleine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Denial, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Nature, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: But then, that wasn’t strictly an inappropriate thought to have about a demon, wasn't it? Temptation was their business, after all. And temptation was to be withstood, not avoided. Aziraphale was sure of that.The story of a pining angel, told through five gardens.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	there amongst the lilies fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melacka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melacka/gifts).



> Title comes from a translation of _Dark Night of the Soul_ , a very interesting and very gay poem by medieval poet St. John of the Cross (which has also been set to music by Loreena McKennitt)

Aziraphale liked the Garden. Much like Adam and Eve, he didn’t know to miss anything that didn’t exist yet. The water was clear and made sounds not unlike the faraway laughter of angels as it hit perfectly rounded pebbles; the air was simply delicious, while the fruit wholly transcended the descriptor. Aziraphale would never in all his time on Earth find something quite the same, though very seldomly a fruit particularly loved by its gardener would manage to come somewhat close. 

It would be fair to say that he was quite content. Of course he was. That was the point of Eden, and the Almighty didn’t make mistakes. Though… well. Crawly would put the question into words later, but sometimes, weary of his duties, Aziraphale too would put down the flaming sword and look up at the crown of the large tree above him, its fruit twinkling like a multitude of plump red stars, and wonder a great many things — starting with the exact crispness of the bright skin and the sweetness of the white flesh. Not that he was about to break any rules, mind you, wouldn’t do at all. It’s just that he felt hungry and tired, or at least an angelic approximation of it, and the nearest non-forbidden fruit tree was rather far away…

Being an angel, of course, Aziraphale could not actually be tempted. But he found himself understanding a great many more things about humans than he expected, once he was sent to Earth. There would always be apples and trees, for one. And of course, there would always be gardens. 

***

Aziraphale would always fondly remember Nineveh, the way the vines cascaded down the aqueducts and wafts of overripe pomegranate mixed with the sharp smell of the turpentine tree. They walked there often, him and Crawly, because cities always concentrate the most good and the most evil, and Nineveh dwarfed all other cities then — and also because for some reason neither upstairs nor downstairs particularly cared about it despite that. 

Maybe Aziraphale had already started making mistakes then, though of course, he’d made mistakes from the very start, from taking a nap on apple tree duty to giving mankind fire and steel. In truth, he simply appreciated a colleague one could actually have a proper chat with every once in a while. And he was, despite himself, beginning to appreciate Crawly himself as well, his inventiveness, the acerbic sharpness, and his constant questioning. Not actually approving though, of course not. Just shook him out of complacency, he’d tell himself. He’d also tell himself that he _had_ to know what the enemy was up to. And if Crawly was willing to walk right into his arms — er, figuratively — who was Aziraphale to shoo him off? Of course, maybe Aziraphale should’ve also admitted to himself he wasn’t strictly _using_ any new information about Crawly, much less passing it on to head office (and he was providing Crawly with a whole lot of information in return, but something was telling him that Crawly wasn’t reporting it either). Aziraphale didn’t admit a whole lot of things to himself. 

He even resolved to avoid Crawly more; sometimes he was even successful. And yet, on the eve of Nineveh’s devastation, they found each other on the walls above the lush, fragrant gardens again, looking out into the desert and feeling dusty wind whipping through the fringes of their belted shawls. Neither of them was to interfere, so certainly not even head office could begrudge them this truce. Especially just before getting reassigned to Babylon (where contrary to later misconceptions no wonderous gardens existed at all, and both Up- and Downstairs had all their eyes trained on them). Aziraphale was eating sticky sweet dates (it would be quite a while before anyone would grow like Sennacherib’s gardeners), watching Crawly’s gloomy twisted face, which meant he once again found himself caring too much, despite himself, against the party line. Aziraphale, despite himself as well, would think it made Crawly seem rather intriguing, even fetching — but then, that wasn’t strictly an inappropriate thought to have about a demon, wasn't it? Temptation was their business, after all. And temptation was to be withstood, not avoided. Aziraphale was sure of that. 

***

There were no public gardens at that point, not around those parts. Peasants were picking fruit from orchards and berries from the woods, and in some of the developing cities, burghers would sometimes find a small piece of land for themselves. The closest perhaps were monastic gardens, with their chessboard patterns and sharp medicinal smells. Aziraphale thought it better than nothing. And better than the swamps of Wessex, at any rate. 

For his part, Crowley had been not quite part of as much as slinking alongside a Viking attack which had left the monastery quite worse for wear. 

“This is consecrated ground,” Aziraphale had sniffed upon being faced with him, disconcerted both because of their tiff two centuries prior, and also because he had not felt the demon approaching at all. 

(He’d told himself he had been preoccupied with thinking of dinner, and he rather liked this thought. Otherwise he would’ve had to accept that perhaps over the centuries, Crowley had become more like a crack of thunder amidst refreshing summer rain; something disconcerting and yet comforting in its familiarity, something which had stopped registering as evil to Aziraphale at all. But since that would be absolutely inacceptable, it could obviously not be true.)

Crowley had only shrugged sheepishly, waved at the shrieking and clanging outside, and said “Uhh, well. Not anymore?”

At any rate, Aziraphale had put a stop to it quickly. The quietness of monastic life at least had left him with a good amount of miracles unused and he also didn’t care for getting reprimanded about failing to protect the monastery. Michael was already rather tetchy since he kept jealously guarding the library instead of letting the monks use it for their important work. Crowley hadn’t minded, though the sacking had ostensibly been an assignment. Apparently Downstairs didn’t care about the specifics of what got burned down when, only that something did. Aziraphale suspected this was another one of his demonic untruths, and Crowley was once again attempting to convince him of the arrangement idea they’d parted over a couple of centuries ago. Aziraphale might’ve also been beginning to think Crowley wasn’t wholly wrong, since they had once again quite literally cancelled out each other’s work. Of course, he was not about to admit that aloud either. 

At any rate, the Vikings and the monks had become very fast friends for reasons not quite transparent to themselves and celebrated with a hastily arranged banquet. Crowley lazily attempted to sow discord, mostly by suggesting increasingly blasphemous jokes to the abbot, which left Aziraphale more amused than anything. The heady dandelion wine was warming both their cheeks and Aziraphale was beginning to feel like he was embarrassingly glowing like the pot marigold in his stew, but he simply couldn’t help it. Later, they walked the gardens, all mellow sunset and the earthy scents of kitchen herbs. The wine made Aziraphale say something silly which in turn made Crowley snort, a beautiful ridiculous sound, and for a second Aziraphale wished he could forget this was but a short reprieve, and duty and loyalty meant something. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said, as always persuasive, coaxing, “S’not really your thing, is it, being here? I mean, what even is that?” A gesture at the habit. “Where’s your, y’know. Froofy stuff. Shining armour. All that.”

“I indeed _am_ an angel. Living in a monastery is thus absolutely, as you say, ‘my thing.’ And the habit is perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Aziraphale sniffed, and then sighed, “Although I do miss dessert.”

Crowley snorted and, still hurrying after Aziraphale, jumped over the shadow of the church tower, one long lanky shadow himself. Desecrated or not, better take no chances. Although the fact that it left him in the shadow of an apple tree instead was somewhat ironic. 

“What, not happy with your homegrown healthy options? Yeah okay, I get it, apple’d be a bit bad taste maybe, but look, there’s just...so much to choose from!” Crowley said mockingly, and still rather drunk, picked a flower off a nearby dog rose to chew it demonstratively. Whenever he did condescend to eat, he did it exclusively in the most disruptive and strange way he could think of. Aziraphale couldn't help but snort. 

“Really now,” he said faux-chidingly, and picked a handful of the rosehips, even though they weren’t strictly something a human would enjoy either, sour taste best tempered with sugar. He offered a couple to Crowley in his open palm, more force of habit than anything, or maybe his own kind of teasing — but then Crowley caught his gaze and swayed towards him and Aziraphale stilled. 

Their hands didn’t touch, not exactly, but the movement of air as Crowley reached down was enough to make Aziraphale shiver. He watched the berry disappear between Crowley’s lips with bated breath, conscious to a fault of the same sourness on their tongues. It made him shudder and the handful of rosehips plummeted to the ground, muffled thuds in the soft grass. Once again, Aziraphale wished he could pretend to be ignorant of how the meaning of kissing had changed over millennia from when Crowley suggested it ( _Come on, angel, s’gonna be a big hit, we should try--_ Of course he’d said no!) and twist his fingers in Crowley’s Viking tunic and pull him close. Aziraphale fiddled with the knots on his belt, casting about for something to say instead. He’d forgotten that this was what Crowley did, tempting him, force of habit probably, demonic nature, couldn't help it— 

“Have you- ah. Been to London lately?”

“Oh yeah, loads,” Crowley replied, gaze glued to the ground now, and kicked at the small heap of rosehips. “Shaping up interestingly. Normans and all.”

“Normans? Good heavens.” Aziraphale paused, taking in Crowley’s sharp profile. He was not thinking about the Normans at all, if he was being honest with himself (which he rarely was). “Perhaps I should brush up my French.”

Crowley muttered something cutting about both his French _and_ his German, which Aziraphale pretended to be mortally (immortally?) offended by, hurrying them back into their usual rapport, away from delicate, painful moments that could not be, trying to breathe on against the bitter, bitter smell of sage.

***

London became a place of familiarity and comfort, for a long, long time, longer than Aziraphale had spent anywhere else. St. James did too, with its wide lawns, refined roses, and perpetual chatter of fowl. Crowley had become much more than an intermittently disappearing shadow as well, almost something like a semi-constant companion, though they were being careful, as they'd always been. Aziraphale had gotten used to it. And at some point, the half-stinging half-fluttering sensation which came up in his depths whenever Crowley looked at him just _so_ had become familiar as well. 

On the neighbouring bench, the Soviet attaché was painfully, hopelessly in love with his MI6 liaison. Aziraphale had been feeling wafts of it for months now. He was sure Crowley was sensing it too; not the love, of course, but the desperation, the sadness, the lust. Demons too need to feel what they’re working with. Of course, they never talked about it, though Aziraphale saw Crowley look over sometimes, face twisting. They rarely talked of humans in the particular anyway, except as relevant to assignments, or maybe in jest — and neither felt like voicing, naming this, because in doing so, they would inevitably stumble upon something else, something even more unspeakable.

As it were, Aziraphale knew that Crowley had two tickets to a new production of Hamlet in his pocket, because Aziraphale wanted to see it and Crowley himself was likely looking forward to performatively moaning about the gloominess and his regret over having miracled it to success. It was all part of the game and Aziraphale could play it, always could. He didn’t consider himself even half as unfortunate as the agents; after all, even just like this, he and Crowley had eternity.

Didn’t they? 

***

(When Aziraphale left the bandstand, the trees around him were unseasonably dead, the leaves crunching under his feet an unsightly brown — and yet, they too were what Aziraphale remembered when he rebuilt his faith from the ground up less than 24 hours later, millennia of conflict and agony collapsing into the one simple thought that there were no trees in heaven, either.)

***

Freedom felt restless. After the Ritz, they walked the city, swaying into each other, circling around home and never quite making it there. The small patch of green they found hidden away at the end of Phoenix Street just outside of Soho did nicely for the time being; Aziraphale could feel the fields which had laid in its place once upon a time; the buildings that had burned there, and how one day, people had ripped up decades-old concrete and made a small green space of their own. The realization that all of this history was still brimming under the surface instead of having been incinerated into ash tugged at him for a moment, almost painfully. But then Crowley finally laced their fingers together and pulled him close, and Aziraphale felt his heart unfurling like petals, chrysanthemums and jasmine, in mellow green tea. Crowley’s nose bumped into his, and he was holding on tight, too tight; Aziraphale wouldn’t have had it any other way, wouldn’t ever again choose anything perfect and shining and sterile over lips finding each other with as much sloppiness as feeling, and the roughness of their breaths whenever they came up for air out of nothing but wonderful, human-like habit. 

Aziraphale curled his fingers into Crowley’s sleeve and thought of fiery rebirth, and of how far this place was from being one of the Seven Wonders; but then, the Greeks were being rather vain when they invented those, didn’t they? 

_Quit thinking so goddamn much, angel,_ Crowley would’ve said if he weren’t too busy desperately kissing him. If Aziraphale weren’t so busy kissing him back, he might’ve answered that over the course of multiple millennia, there were a great many things he’d never let himself think about at all, and he was cherishing the opportunity to finally do so, thank you very much. 

The scents of nocturnal flowers filled the air and somewhere close by, there was a city, with its sounds and lights, and it might have very well been that a certain angel and a certain demon wouldn’t stop kissing until the morning dew. As it is, neither of them minded the idea terribly much.

***

St. James was sunnier than ever; the grass was rising towards the sun in its last moments of green while already partially covered in a spotty layer of crisp golden leaves, and the people of London had come flooding out of their houses and into the garden to catch this year’s last warm rays. 

“Sometimes I believe your lot had a hand in these beastly creatures,” Aziraphale said, watching a swan chase a shrieking child for its currant bun. It was rather remarkable that his greatest worry at the moment was the conflict between his desire to buy himself a pastry as well and the unwillingness to defend it against an aggressive fowl, but as it were, he was actually quite unaware of it. 

“Oh, none of that,” said Crowley. “The Almighty’s creatures, all the sorry lot of them. D’you not remember one stealing Uriel’s sandal in the Garden?”

“Ah, I do seem to. Though you being present does little to convince me otherwise, you know.”

“Nah, was just biding my time and laughing my arse off. Same as you, I might add.”

Well, Aziraphale hoped he _had_ been rather more delicate than that. He’d even hidden in some shrubs, where he’d hoped no one would see him as he couldn’t help but let out an undignified giggle. Something crossed Aziraphale’s mind then, and it too was an uncharacteristically light thought, bringing with itself nothing but mild surprise, curiosity, and fondness.

“My dear, were you watching me then already?”

Crowley shrugged, almost bashfully, and muttered, “Might’ve been.”

Aziraphale smiled and reached over to rest his palm atop Crowley’s, with no thought of someone watching, though someone indeed was. 

On the neighbouring bench, the man who used to be a Soviet cultural attaché folded his newspaper. He was alone, but by choice; he’d come to like a solitary walk in his older days, and he had a lovely home to return to, and a lovely man with it — not the same he used to share a bench with, but a lovely man nonetheless. The former attaché had a somewhat hazy memory of some stormy, unpleasant days recently, but now the sky was clear and everything felt... right, from the shrieking children and fluttering birds to the dissimilar couple on the bench next to him holding hands. He reached to polish his glasses and took a deep breath of fresh crisp air. By the time he put them on again, the couple had gotten up, disparate like two chess pieces at the sidelines of the board, and he smiled unwittingly as he watched them walk off into a hazy, gildening autumn.


End file.
